Frantic And Fabulous Fred

I don't know who's going to miss Fred Olivieri more: The Curtis High School football players, or those of us who've been lucky enough to cover his games.

I've been part of the latter group since 1990. In fact, my first football coverage was a game between Curtis and Lehman at the Clinton HS field in the Bronx. It was memorable for me, not only because it was my first game, but because it was nearly my last.

For whatever reason, the powers that be decided to play that game, despite a downpour which caused an already poor dirt field to turn into a 100-yard mosh pit. In fact, it was the only high school game played that day.

Lucky me.

As I hadn't yet perfected ways of protecting myself against the elements while also keeping my notebook dry enough to write down each play, needless to say I wasn't the happiest guy in the world.

I remember seeking shelter at halftime in the Curtis locker room -- drizzle on my fogged-up glasses, my feet soaked to the bone, and my notebook warped to the point where the pen wouldn't write -- and thinking to myself, "That's it, I quit! This is ridiculous." Plus some more choice words you'd be more apt to hear at a Teamsters convention than an SAT prep class.

As bad as it was for me, it ended up being worse for the Warriors. I recall Jeff Forde, their gifted quarterback who'd later sign with Wisconsin, fumbling the mud-caked pigskin near his own goal line, setting up a Lehman touchdown and a 21-14 win for the Lions.

It was one of those ridiculously talented Curtis clubs -- with guys like Forde and Washington State-bound running back Will Haskell, and a pair of linebacker/receivers in Ray Guerriero and Exodus Peters who were the epitome of team leaders -- but they only finished 5-4-1 on the season. Curtis had a bunch of similar squads throughout the early to mid-1990s, where the talent and the won-loss record didn't seem to add up.

You could almost guarantee that any game involving Curtis during those years would be a nail-biter, and that there would be at least one play you'd be raving about for weeks, whether it was an acrobatic Ben Scott catch or a Demetrius Dotson escape from a horde of would-be tacklers.

But more than the entertainment value they provided, and the stirring copy they produced for me and my Advance colleagues, those Warrior teams were likeable because of the way the kids handled themselves. You wouldn't see the tirades or hear the profanity found on some other sidelines, or watch their kids get into fights on the field.

It was easy to see their behavior was a reflection of their head coach.

Throughout that period, when the Warriors couldn't get out of the quarterfinals for four straight seasons, Olivieri never made excuses. He was always gracious. Where other coaches would snap at reporters after wins, Freddie always had time for the scribes afterward, no matter the outcome.

Talking with Freddie after games was an experience. He was like a wind-up toy on a fresh set of batteries, still revved up from the thrill of the competition. Freddie was a cartoon character come to life -- many of us swear we've seen his head swivel around completely during games.

As Olivieri has pointed out, the turning point for the Warriors' fortunes coincided with the addition of former players Andrew Schron and Pete Gambardella to a coaching staff that already included long-time assistant Pete McNamara. Together, Curtis' version of the Fab Four topped the charts immediately, winning the PSAL city championship their first season together in 1998 and following up with another crown a year later.

Suddenly, Olivieri had become a genius overnight, even though many of us felt it was only be a matter of time before the championships started coming his way. He added two more city titles to his resume, capped by a perfect 13-0 campaign in 2007.

All the while, Olivieri's demeanor remained the same. He was a little happier, sure, but four city titles will do that to you.

Although I think it just mirrored the joy he had from seeing his players succeed, and of sharing the victories with his assistants, who kept the head coach anchored -- not that he really needed it -- by constantly preying on his superstitions and paranoia, as only best friends can.

It's those traits and idiosyncrasies that made Freddie, well, Freddie: Moving onto the field 10 yards to bark out signals, then begrudgingly moving back after receiving the umpteenth warning by a referee ... yelling so much he'd be hoarse by the second quarter ... calling the Advance sports department mid-week to find out who was covering his game (although Freddie denies keeping track of the won-loss record based on who the reporter was) ... and, a personal favorite, calling the Advance after contests to speak with the reporter to go over his own postgame quotes, to make sure he didn't spill any secrets or provide any bulletin-board material, not that he ever did.

"What'd I say?" would undoubtedly be the question coming from the Curtis football room, with muffled laughter inevitably at the other end of the phone in the Advance office. And yes, Fred, we kept a count of your call-backs. Sometimes we even ran an over-under pool.

It became the best kind of inside joke -- the kind Olivieri would laugh about.

I know I speak for the other Advance reporters when I say we'll miss those calls, along with a lot of other things about Freddie. Here's hoping a little bit of that paranoia rubs off on Gambo. We'll be waiting for that phone to ring come football season. 